


Winning Prospects

by kestrelsan



Category: Prince of Tennis, Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-10
Updated: 2009-12-10
Packaged: 2017-10-06 03:10:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/49036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kestrelsan/pseuds/kestrelsan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not everything changes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Winning Prospects

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to prillalar for beta.

Atobe ends up sitting next to an old woman who calls him a sweet child and tries to set him up with her granddaughter. They go to the same university, she says, surely he's met her.

"It's a large campus," he says.

It keeps him from having to watch this match, at least. He can't believe Sanada is still wearing that stupid hat. Sanada's taller, bigger, but his play is familiar. Atobe maps out each move, predicts each shot. He's faster, too, and Atobe stumbles along with his opponent when Sanada's baseline shot hits the corner.

"So exciting having a local boy in the final," the old woman says.

"It gives me chills," Atobe says.

He still goes to the after-tournament party. Everyone's dressed but the players, who are still in their tournament gear. They look like show ponies.

"The room is too large," someone says behind him—young, light, feminine. Atobe turns.

"Nosaka," he says. She's wearing a suit jacket and skirt, navy blue with pinstripes. Atobe wonders if it's new. "I'm offended. Is my father really checking up on me?"

"Your father is sponsoring over half the cost of the tournament," Nosaka says. "But no, he's not checking up on you. I'm on my way to Yokohama and thought I'd stop in." She scans the room, and it really is too big for the number of people invited. This was what happened when event planning was left to a bunch of university students. Atobe can tell she's as unimpressed as he is, but her face doesn't show it. Years of working for his father.

"You should come upstairs," Atobe says, swirling wine in his glass. "I booked the penthouse suite."

She laughs. "Oh, Atobe-san." Her phone buzzes, and she glances down at the display, frowning. "I have to go. Call if you need me."

Atobe watches her cross the ballroom to the exit. His eyes catch on Sanada, being chatted up by the Keio student council president. She seems sincere in her adoration of tennis. Sanada is predictably disapproving of her enthusiasm.

Atobe needs a place to dump the rest of his wine. He should have had them stock his own.

The bathroom's deserted, surprisingly so for a party with an open bar. Atobe empties his wine glass in one of the sinks. He's washing his hands when Sanada comes in.

"Congratulations," Atobe says easily.

Sanada's eyes narrow. "Thank you."

"It was quite the stunning match," Atobe says. "I hear you won over four hundred thousand yen."

"I hear you don't play anymore."

"Touché," Atobe says, and drops the towel next to the sink. He turns, leans against the counter. "So what's next? Now that you've gone pro."

"A tournament in Brisbane," Sanada says. "Not until January."

"I'm sure you'll represent Japan well," Atobe says, and Sanada frowns, searching for the barb though Atobe had meant it sincerely. Mostly.

It's almost too easy, too familiar. "You should come upstairs with me," Atobe says. "I booked the penthouse suite."

Sanada blinks, looks away, looks back. His jaw twitches. Interesting.

"All right," he says.

****

Atobe wonders if Sanada kisses the same way he did at fifteen, hard and methodical with something darker underneath. His back against the camp clubhouse wall, Atobe's mouth on his and a leg between Sanada's thighs. Sometimes it's Tezuka Atobe's kissing instead. Memory's a fickle thing.

"Make yourself at home," Atobe says, waving a hand in the direction of the suite. He hasn't even looked at the room yet but assumes it's adequate, certainly for this purpose. Sanada moves past him and stops in front of the wall of windows facing the Yokohama skyline. He looks like an overgrown kid in his track pants and jacket.

Atobe takes off his suit jacket and hangs it in the closet. He loosens his tie. He should probably feel cynical in the moment, but he's mostly just interested.

"You should look for better endorsement deals," Atobe says, coming up behind him and tugging at the back of Sanada's jacket.

"Are you going to talk all night?" Sanada says. He steps back to take his jacket off and lays it over the chair by the desk. When he pulls off his hat, Atobe takes it from him and tosses it across the room. He hopes it lands behind something, or perhaps he can step on it later.

It's left Sanada's hair a flattened mess. Atobe frowns, irritated. But the rest of Sanada, when he pulls his shirt over his head, is quite satisfactory.

"So how does it feel, going pro?" Atobe puts a hand on Sanada's chest, scrapes a nail lightly over it. Skin jumps under his fingers.

Sanada pulls Atobe's hand away. "You would know if you'd tried."

"There's a whole world outside tennis," Atobe says, and pulls Sanada's head down.

Sanada kisses the way he remembers. Like there's something he's trying to drive out. Atobe wonders if Sanada's always pissed off during sex, or if he's even allowed himself the opportunity. He pulls back, says in Sanada's ear, "I'm curious why you came up here."

"Are you," Sanada says. He's a little flushed, but his hands are steady enough on the buttons of Atobe's shirt and the knot of his tie. "I thought that was obvious."

"Maybe," Atobe says. He steps back, shrugs out of his shirt. "Come on, then," he says, and walks into the bedroom.

There's enough light from the sitting room that he can see Sanada clearly when he follows a moment later. Atobe's already kicked off his pants. Sanada sits down on the edge of the bed to remove his shoes, like he's just come in from a workout. He pushes his track pants over his hips, and whether Sanada's fighting it or not, his body's definitely interested.

"Wait here," Atobe says. He walks back into the sitting room and finds the overnight bag his driver left on the luggage rack.

Sanada's still sitting on the edge of the bed when he returns, neither self-conscious nor exhibitionist of his body, which really is a very nice one, but he's too far in the shadows; Atobe can't read him. Then Sanada's pulling him back on the bed and finds Atobe's mouth, and Atobe kisses him seriously this time.

Sanada's hand closes over his, the one still holding the condom and lube. It's a battle Atobe expected; there's no racquet here to spin.

But Sanada lets go after only a moment. "You've done this before," Atobe says, a statement and a question. Sanada doesn't reply to either, but he doesn't object to Atobe's fingers, or when Atobe pushes his leg up.

"You have done this before," Atobe says, pressing in slowly. He closes his hand over Sanada's cock and a strain passes over Sanada's face; he lets out a quick breath. "Your consumptive captain, perhaps, or that scraggly kid who always followed you around. Really, you let them do this to you?"

Sanada laughs. Atobe doesn't expect it, or the way it pulls Sanada's body in tighter around him, and he squeezes Sanada hard in response. He's closer to the edge than he thought. Sanada's eyes lower to slits as Atobe pours more lube onto his hand, rubs his thumb under the head of Sanada's cock and down the length of it. He doesn't make a sound as Atobe brings him off, just arches his back a little and bites his lip when he comes.

Atobe moves once, twice, then he's coming, too, more vocally but he doesn't care.

After a moment he pulls out, disposes of the condom, and then just lies there. The back of his head is damp with sweat. Sex makes him feel like he used to after a match. When he won, anyway.

The bed shifts, and Atobe's eyes trace the line of Sanada's back as he leaves the bedroom. Atobe gives it a minute then forces himself up, blinks in the brighter light of the sitting room and blinding light of the bathroom. Sanada's washing at one of the sinks. His hair is even worse than before.

Atobe hands him a towel. He lets the water in the other sink run cold, splashes his face, and hears the bathroom door close. He grabs another towel. Back in the sitting room, Sanada is pulling on his jacket and has found his hat. Pity.

"Good luck in Brisbane," Atobe says, leaning against the wall.

Sanada pauses. Atobe hopes he's not going to be moody about all of this. He's always suspected Sanada of having a romantic streak.

"What about you?" Sanada asks.

"Oh," Atobe says. "Like I said, there's a whole world beyond tennis."

Either the idea is foreign enough to leave Sanada speechless or he's run out of things to say. He just nods at Atobe, like acquaintances meeting in the hall, and lets himself out.

Atobe looks out the window, Yokohama spread out below. It is rather stunning.

His phone rings. He considers not answering, but then pushes off from the wall and finds it in the bedroom under a pile of gabardine. The room smells like sex. They hadn't even turned down the duvet.

It's Nosaka. "Checking up on me again?" Atobe says. "Or are you coming over after all?"

"Cute," she says. "I'm just ringing to let you know that your father will be in London through Thursday. I believe your mother's flying out as well."

"Give him the regards of a dutiful son," Atobe says. "Are you staying here? We should have dinner."

"Your tastes are too expensive," she says. "I could never afford to keep you. Unless your father gives me a raise."

"So now it's bribery," Atobe says, and hears her laugh before the connection dies.

He tosses the phone on the bed, rubs the back of his neck. If nothing else, Sanada helped him relax. Sex, the cure for all ills.

He goes to take a shower.

****

Atobe knows that the only reason he's on this committee is because the economics chair hopes his father will donate to the department. It will still look good on his résumé, the only undergraduate on the Todai economics conferences committee. Not that he'll ever need a résumé.

"We could recommend Kohler to be the keynote," says Tanaka. He's the son of the second richest man in Tokyo, and Atobe knows it galls him to have to work with the son of the richest. Reason enough to stay on this committee, however excruciatingly dull it usually is.

"Kohler's a hack," Atobe says. "He stole half his ideas from Perreira. If you want your conference to be a laughingstock, then by all means, invite him."

"Oh fuck you, Atobe," Tanaka says, but he knows Atobe's right. Or he would if he actually paid attention to the world, which Atobe doubts is true of any graduate student.

It's dark by the time the committee head decides to postpone the discussion to the next meeting. So far that's been her forte. It's cold, too, and Atobe's glad enough of the warmth of the car waiting on the street outside the department building. His eyes drift closed until he's interrupted by his phone: Oshitari. Atobe thinks about ignoring it, but he's been dodging Oshitari's calls lately.

"Atobe," Oshitari says. "Asshole. Why have you been avoiding me?"

"Because you're a tedious bore who drinks too much," Atobe says, which is half true, anyway. His plan for a catnap foiled, he looks out the window. It's rush hour in Tokyo and the car is creeping along.

"Whatever. You should be nicer to me; I'm inviting you on holiday. We're heading up to Hakuba over break. I didn't want to invite you but Ohtori insisted."

"Who's we?" Atobe asks.

"Shishido, Ohtori, Jirou. Maybe Gakuto and some friend of Jirou's."

"Where are you staying?"

"I don't know, ask Ryou. He's making the arrangements."

Atobe makes a face. He can just imagine. "Maybe," he says. "I'll let you know." He hangs up.

It takes another forty-five minutes to get to the house. "Your father's here for dinner," Ine says when Atobe walks in, by which she means that Atobe should dress for it.

Atobe would prefer to crawl into bed and sleep for the next ten hours. He lays his bag on the chair next to his desk and turns on the news feed. The Nikkei's dropped another eighty points. He switches channels, pulls up his saved programs: there's one in there from over a month ago; he should probably just delete it already, but he brings it up instead.

Tezuka's still too tall for his frame. It makes him look gangly on his serves and awkward on his returns, except somehow he's always there in time, and after a while the awkwardness starts to look like grace. It's the third round in Lyon, the match Tezuka lost, and Atobe tries to figure out why. His opponent is nothing special, but he takes the second set and the third.

Atobe thinks about calling him. _I saw your match_. Instead he turns off the TV and looks for a suitable jacket for dinner.

"How are your studies?" his father asks at dinner. Nosaka's there, as well as one of his father's new business associates. Hitoshi or something like it.

"Adequate," Atobe says. "We're selecting a keynote speaker for the economic theory conference."

"That's wonderful, Keigo," his mother says, but his father's expression doesn't change.

"I hope you're not spending all your time on theory," he says.

"Of course not," Atobe says.

His father never discusses business at dinner and doesn't invite Atobe into his study afterward, so Atobe ends up walking in the garden, even though it's too cold. Bracing, even. He doesn't stay long, and he's surprised to see Nosaka at the garden doors when he returns.

"I thought you were still squirreled away."

"No," she says. She looks tired, or it could be the poor light. "Waiting for a call. How was your committee meeting?"

"Overly democratic," he says, and she smiles.

"The bane of committees everywhere," she says.

Atobe hears his father's voice calling her back. She looks like she's about to say something, eyes searching, then breaks off with an apologetic smile and the clip of her heels.

Upstairs, Atobe takes off his jacket and tie, hangs them back in the closet. His phone's still in his pocket. He's not even sure what country Tezuka's in at the moment, what time it is for him, if he's staying in Europe for the winter or coming back to Japan.

He saves the match anyway.

****

Atobe reserves a room at La Neige, just in case, but the lodge Ryou picked isn't actually the dump he expected. It's still pretentiously rustic, but Atobe decides he could use a little down in the weeds time. See how the common folk lived.

"You're such an ass," Shishido says. "Common folk? Seriously?"

"He's just baiting you, Ryou," Oshitari says.

They're waiting for Jirou and his friend, and Ohtori's upstairs in his room, probably calling his parents to let them know he wasn't killed on the drive up. The place has a decent lounge, at least, and a nice selection of scotch. Oshitari's already told the staff to put the drinks on Atobe's tab, over Shishido's objections.

"You're still a student," Atobe says to Ryou. "You should be thankful for the patronage."

"So are you," Shishido says, scowling.

It's more relaxing than Atobe expected. He actually sleeps in the next morning, ignoring his phone and Oshitari thumping at the door. It's snowing when he finally opens his eyes, huge flakes that have piled up on the window sill and obscure everything beyond it. Atobe watches it for a while then goes back to sleep.

"The king awakens," Oshitari says, when Atobe finally makes it down to the lounge for dinner. The rest of them are red-faced from the snow and a day spent on the slopes, and Atobe's glad he stayed in.

"Just because I actually work hard," Atobe says.

The next day Atobe goes with them and kicks Shishido's ass down the intermediate slope. Then Ohtori kicks his ass down the expert one, which makes him consider Ohtori in new light. He leaves Jirou attempting to snowboard and heads back to the lodge. He's actually out of breath; he needs to get back to working out.

Oshitari, who bailed on the slopes at lunchtime, is at the bar watching tennis on the TV screen in the corner.

"You'll never guess who's playing," Oshitari says, but Atobe already knows.

Sanada looks surprisingly large on TV. His serves have gotten better, too. "What round is this?" Atobe asks.

"Quarterfinals," Oshitari says.

Atobe calls Sanada the next night, while the others are down in the outdoor ofuro. He doubts Sanada's number's even the same or that he has international calling, so he's a little surprised when Sanada picks up.

"I saw your match," Atobe says.

"Did you," Sanada says, after a moment.

"Your backhand needs work. And you spend too much energy on each point. You should strategize more."

Sanada huffs what could either be a laugh or a verbal scowl. "I won, didn't I?"

"Yes," Atobe says. He lays back on the bed, plays with the edge of the duvet. He can feel his heartbeat elevating; interesting that Sanada of all people would inspire that reaction. "What are you wearing?"

"How unoriginal," Sanada says.

"I like the classics," Atobe says. He rolls onto his side, looks out at the ridiculously clear night sky. "Don't tell me you don't want to."

"Want to what?"

"Tell me what you would do if I were there right now."

There's only more silence on the other end. Sanada's probably never even heard of phone sex. "Fine," Atobe says. "Are you alone?"

"Yes," Sanada says.

Instead of what he'd planned, Atobe finds himself saying, "I enjoyed our last encounter. It was very...." He frowns. He doesn't know the word he wants.

"Are you alone?" Sanada says.

"Yes," Atobe says.

"Good," Sanada says, and it takes Atobe a moment. Then he can hear it, the slight hitch of Sanada's breath. Just a small sound, but Atobe's voice catches in his throat. He slides his hand down the waistband of his pants, feels himself already hard.

Trust Sanada to defy the entire reason for phone sex. But Atobe can't deny that it turns him on, listening to Sanada get himself off. He smoothes the flat of his hand over his dick, not wanting to come just yet. Sanada's almost impossibly quiet, just a few small sounds giving him away. Atobe wonders if he practices.

Then he hears it, a sharp inhalation, and he knows Sanada's coming. He presses his hand down hard and feels a moment of dizziness.

There's a long silence on the other end of the line. Sanada says, "The next match is tomorrow. I need to get some sleep."

"Do your best," Atobe says, but Sanada doesn't answer.

Atobe takes care of himself in the shower, a few quick strokes with his forehead pressed against cool tile, water slicing down his back.

"Where were you?" Oshitari asks, when he joins them in the ofuro.

"Reminiscing," Atobe says.

****

Atobe has exams to study for, papers to write, but he's restless when classes start up again, like an itch of dissatisfaction.

He returns from his afternoon class to his father drinking tea in the sunroom off the garden. Nosaka's with him, looking out over the winter foliage, though she turns when Atobe enters the room. His father gestures for him to sit and Atobe takes the chair opposite, crosses his legs.

"How are your classes?"

"Dull," Atobe says. "Predictable. Unchallenging."

His father considers him over his cup of tea. He's not an idiot; he knows what Atobe is asking.

It's Nosaka who speaks. "There's that meeting with the Hansol group next week in Yokohama," she says diffidently, though Atobe's known her long enough to see through it. "You were going to send Mitsui-san. It could be seen as an honoring gesture."

His father doesn't immediately say anything. Atobe wants to rub at the tension in his neck, but he keeps his hands folded loosely in his lap.

"Send him the details," his father finally says to Nosaka and dismisses Atobe with a wave of his hand.

He gets an email the next day from Nosaka with the time and place, a sketch of what the meeting is about and a promise to call later to fill him in on the Hansol offshoot. _It's just an exploratory meeting_, she writes. _A way to see if we have any mutual interests_.

It's scheduled for lunch at one of the downtown Yokohama hotels. Mitsui is waiting for him in the lounge. "Keigo," Mitsui says. He's been his father's VP for as long as Atobe can remember. "I see you're starting to take an interest."

"One can never have too many options," Atobe says.

Atobe knows he's just window dressing, a way to show his father's seriousness, whether or not that's true. He acts the part, asks cautious, informed questions, is moderately charming. He lets Mitsui take the lead but holds his own. Next time he won't be there just for show.

"It was a good meeting," Mitsui says, when the Hansol representatives leave to catch the evening flight back to Seoul. "Do you need a ride back to Tokyo?"

Atobe doesn't feel like going back yet. "I'll stick around a bit."

He calls Nosaka outside the hotel. It's a warmish day, unseasonably so. "How did it go?" she asks.

"Well," he says, walking down to the corner, where the cross street is lined with small shops and restaurants. The sidewalks are filled with people taking advantage of the weather. "I was glorious."

She laughs. "I have no doubt."

Atobe's eyes catch on an unexpectedly familiar face. "I'll call you back," he says to Nosaka, turns off his phone. "A break between tournaments?"

Sanada stops dead in front of him. He looks appalled. "Atobe."

There's an old man with him who eyes Atobe curiously. From the look of the bags Sanada's carrying, they've just done their shopping.

"You're being rude, Genichirou," the old man says. Sanada flushes and makes the introductions. His grandfather, then.

Atobe bows. "An honor to meet you."

The old Sanada smiles. "Charming boy. You were in school together?"

"Something like that," Atobe says, eyeing Sanada. For once he's not wearing his hat. It makes him look oddly younger.

"We're on our way home to make ton-jiru," the grandfather says. "Genichirou, invite your friend to dinner."

Sanada looks like he would rather cut off his right arm. But he makes the offer, eyes relaying to Atobe the consequences of anything other than refusal.

"I'd love to," Atobe says.

****

The Sanada household is as traditional as Atobe expected. Sanada's grandfather shoos them into the tatami room and disappears into the kitchen. Atobes sits across from Sanada and waits. Sanada refuses to look at him.

The standoff's interrupted by the appearance of a boy in the doorway, maybe ten or so. "Don't tell me you've been married all this time," Atobe says, and Sanada glares at him.

"Oji-san isn't my father," the boys says, as if Atobe is dense.

"I'm relieved to hear it," Atobe says. The boy's still looking at him; curious but also with some speculation. Atobe meets his eyes coolly.

"Play a match with me," the boy says, chin tilted in challenge.

"Sasuke," Sanada says quellingly, and the boy makes a face at him.

"You never play me anymore."

"How do you know I even play?" Atobe asks Sasuke curiously.

Sasuke stares at him. "All of oji-san's friends play tennis."

"All right," Atobe says, and stands up. "Give me one of your racquets," he says to Sanada.

For a moment Atobe thinks Sanada is going to refuse. He doesn't look happy. But then he stands up as well. "Through here."

There's a clay court behind the house, past the garden. It's crude but full-sized and serviceable. Sasuke practically skips to the other side. Atobe takes the racquet Sanada hands him. It's heavier than he likes, but he feels out the grip, takes a few practice swings.

"You can serve," Sasuke says, and Atobe raises an eyebrow. He sends over an easy slice that Sasuke forehands down the line. "Play seriously!" Sasuke yells. The kid's actually scowling at him. Atobe can see the family resemblance now.

"All right," Atobe says. He sends the next one into the corner. He doesn't have as much control with this racquet so it's off by a couple of inches, but it's still in and gets by Sasuke. Atobe takes some power off the next one and it's returned, though a foot or so wide.

Sanada's leaning against the shed, watching. It gives Atobe an extra buzz, knowing that Sanada's eyes are on him. Atobe doesn't deliberately make his movements suggestive, but he can't help it if he looks hot playing tennis.

Sasuke's not actually bad. A future Sanada, maybe. He's still a kid, however, and even though it's been over a year since Atobe picked up a racquet, he wins the match easily.

Sasuke seems ecstatic, however, and skips back into the house when Sanada's grandfather calls them in to dinner. Atobe hands the racquet back to Sanada. There's something unreadable in Sanada's eyes, and Atobe wants to stay out on the court, find out what it is. But Sanada just takes the racquet and walks past him into the house.

The ton-jiru is delicious. "Your home is lovely," Atobe says to Sanada's grandfather, who beams.

"You should be so polite, Genichirou," the old man says to Sanada.

Atobe makes his excuses at the appropriate time. "Come back and play me again," Sasuke says, his expression challenging. Atobe fights off the urge to ruffle his hair. Sanada walks him to the street, where Atobe's driver is already waiting.

"I'm staying at the Pan Pacific," Atobe says, though he'd planned to return to Tokyo that night. Sanada looks at him. Atobe wants to push him back against the car and kiss him. He's pretty sure Sanada would let him.

"Good to know," Sanada says.

****

It's after ten before Sanada shows up. Atobe's been sipping the same glass of scotch for the past hour, head resting on the back of the couch and his legs stretched out to the floor.

Sanada's still got that look in his eyes. "Don't say anything," Sanada says, closes the door behind him and pushes Atobe back against it. The taste of whiskey's still on Atobe's lips, and Sanada stares at them. "Not a word."

Atobe couldn't speak if he wanted to because Sanada's kissing him, dark and hungry and with purpose.

Atobe just takes it at first. The back of his head aches from pressing against the door. Then he holds Sanada still with a hand behind his neck and kisses back. His lips will be bruised tomorrow, but Atobe doesn't care.

It's not like before. Atobe doesn't know what it is. Sanada's kissing him like he's trying to dig his way in.

"Where?" Sanada asks, finally breaking off.

"Bathroom," Atobe says. "The black bag."

Sanada pushes off from the door. Atobe walks into the bedroom, shedding his shirt and pants along the way.

When Sanada returns Atobe's leaning back against the headboard. He watches Sanada pull his shirt over his head, unfasten his pants. He doesn't resist when Sanada tugs him down, runs a hand down Atobe's thigh and underneath it, pushes his knee up. Sanada strokes the inside of Atobe's thigh, brushes a hand over Atobe's cock. Atobe doesn't think he's been this hard in his life. Sanada hesitates. "Is this all right?"

"Yes," Atobe says. "Shut up. Just do it."

He winces at the burn of Sanada's fingers. It's been a while. He holds onto Sanada's forearm as his body tries to adjust to the pressure and a little pain when Sanada pushes in, slowly enough but it still feels too much.

Sanada stops, his head bowed over Atobe like he's trying to hold something back. Atobe tries to get a grip on Sanada's hair but it just slips through, so he pulls him down by the back of his head and kisses him.

It's less bruising this time. Atobe's body's adjusted, and it doesn't hurt when Sanada shifts inside him. He runs his hand over Sanada's ass, pulls him in closer. "I'm not going to break," he says, and clenches down.

"Fuck." Sanada's fist tightens in the bedding next to Atobe's head. He angles his hips forward, not much of a rhythm but it's something. Atobe brushes a hand down over his cock, strokes it slowly until Sanada grabs his hand and holds his wrist over his head, and Atobe almost comes from that.

Only the expression on Sanada's face gives him away when he comes. That and the loosening of his grip on Atobe's wrist. Atobe brings his hand immediately to his cock, stroking up roughly until Sanada's hand closes over his and Atobe's pulsing into both of them.

Atobe's too high from orgasm to feel it when Sanada pulls out, but he hears Sanada get up then return a few minutes later. Sanada lies on his back next to Atobe, takes Atobe's hand lightly, presses their fingers together. He really is a romantic sop, but Atobe doesn't pull his hand away.

"Your nephew's just like you," Atobe says.

"Hm," Sanada replies.

"I used to think tennis was everything, too," Atobe says.

"It's not," Sanada says, and Atobe turns his head to look at him.

"You, of all people."

Sanada rubs his thumb over the base of Atobe's palm. "What about you? You had—have—everything. You didn't need tennis."

"Yes," Atobe says, "but tennis was mine."

Sanada doesn't say anything. Atobe stares at the ceiling. It's been a day of far too much introspection. He doesn't like looking back.

After a while he gets up, untangles their fingers. The bathroom light is comforting in its brightness. He washes himself off, splashes his face. His ass is sore. Sanada's still on the bed when he returns, and Atobe stretches out on his side next to him, traces a line down Sanada's stomach. "So what's next? Another tournament?"

"Europe," Sanada says. "A chance to build up more points." He looks at Atobe. "What about you?"

"A bright glorious future," Atobe says. "Time to put away childish things."

Sanada doesn't reply. Atobe finds himself drifting; he's more tired than he thought. He pulls down the duvet and bedsheets, maneuvering them around Sanada and himself. Atobe usually hates sleeping with other people in the bed, but Sanada isn't exactly the cloying type. Atobe's asleep before he realizes it, and when he wakes up Sanada's gone.

Nosaka calls him on the drive up to Tokyo. "Mitsui gave you a glowing report," she says. "He said the Hansol representatives were impressed."

"Of course," Atobe says. "I'm very impressive."

He can almost hear her smile. Then, more seriously: "This is a good thing for you."

"I know," Atobe says.

****

Atobe aces his exams and says goodbye to another year. The conference committee is still meeting but with actual progress for a change, mostly because the committee head had a meltdown and Atobe stepped in before Tanaka could. Democracy his ass.

He meets Oshitari for drinks downtown. Oshitari's trying out a beard. It makes him look like a bum, but Oshitari's convinced that women are into that, and Atobe gives up on persuading him otherwise.

"You look down," Oshitari says.

"Do I?" Atobe plays with the straw umbrella in his drink. He can't believe Oshitari made him buy a drink with an umbrella in it. A cheap one at that.

"Yes," Oshitari says. "Tired. You're not going to have a meltdown, are you?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Atobe says. "As if I ever would."

His father invites him into his study after dinner, at least most of the time. Atobe's not fooling himself: he wants this. It gives him the rush he had playing tennis. He'll learn what he needs to then branch out on his own.

He's upstairs, flipping through channels to wind down from the day. Tezuka's match is still in there; he really should delete it. Instead he takes out his phone.

"Atobe," Tezuka says. Atobe wonders what time it is there. Wherever Tezuka is.

"I saw your match," Atobe says.

"Which one?" Tezuka asks, after a moment.

"The one you lost."

Atobe can hear the wryness in Tezuka's voice. "I've lost a lot of matches."

"Lyon, then," Atobe says. "You took the first set then lost the next two."

"Ah," Tezuka says. Then, in a different voice, he says, "Sanada's here. In Europe, I mean."

Atobe picks at the seam of the chair. "I heard."

"We're both playing in Munich next week."

"So you'll play each other," Atobe says.

"It depends on the draw," Tezuka says. "And if we don't lose before then."

Atobe stares at the TV. Pictures are flashing too quickly to make out. "So you're not going to tell me how you lost in Lyon."

"Atobe," Tezuka says. "Sometimes that's what happens."

Atobe hangs up on him. He should know better than to expect a straight answer from Tezuka.

****

His last class ends at three, and Atobe heads out into the thick summer air. People have been trickling out of campus for days now, and by now it's nearly deserted, just a few people on campus paths and someone leaning against the wall of the research building who pushes off when he sees Atobe.

Atobe stops. Sanada walks up until he's a few feet away, then stands there, hands in his pockets. "How did you even know I was here?" Atobe asks.

"I saw your driver," Sanada says. "Asked him what building you'd be in."

"Good to know what kind of security I have," Atobe says. "I thought you were in Europe."

"I was," Sanada says. "Just taking a break." He glances around them. "Can we...?"

"There's a coffee shop on Hongo street," Atobe says. He continues down the walkway, and after a moment Sanada falls into step with him.

"I saw Tezuka in Munich," Sanada says, and Atobe's grip on his bag tightens.

"I heard," Atobe says. He'd avoided any of the news feed from the Munich tournament. From any of the smaller European tournaments, really. "So? Did you play?"

"Yes," Sanada says. "Second round. I lost."

For some reason Atobe feels relief. "I'm sorry," he says.

Sanada doesn't answer. They reach the campus gate and Atobe turns up the street. The coffee shop is empty now that the students are on break. "What do you want?" Atobe asks him.

Sanada looks up at the menu. "I don't drink coffee," he says. Atobe gives him a look and orders tea for both of them.

They find a table near the back. The tea's too hot to drink; it's too hot out to be drinking tea anyway.

Sanada says, almost musingly, "I've never been called childish before."

Atobe pauses, thinks back. Funny what Sanada picked up on. "No, I can't imagine you have." He plays with the handle of his cup. "When are you going back?"

Sanada leans forward, slides his hand through Atobe's hair, and for a moment Atobe thinks he's actually going to kiss him. Atobe stares at him. Then the shop door opens for the last remaining die-hard students, and Sanada's hand falls.

"A couple of weeks," he says. "There's a tournament in Switzerland the end of the month. You should come see me play."

His hand's still resting on the table, not quite touching Atobe's. Sanada makes a show of drinking his tea.

"Maybe I'll do that," Atobe says.


End file.
